Somehow, at 6 a.m,
or whenever it is
that the Sun returns again,
the taste & the smell
of the air hitting at the back
of my throat, always
fills me with hope.
Sometimes though
hope makes everything worse.
Hope
Flowers & fate
Morning;
horizon cuts the throat of the Sun,
memory separates from fantasy,
you fail to comprehend what you’ve become.
Repeating:
the sky bleeds above the same scenes;
same faces, same shapes & places & you
always another day further away
from when it began,
from when so much sand
was left in the hour-glass.
So awful it was when you finally
realised the truth;
when the wildflowers
withered & the blue
slowly faded away.
Trapped
behind darkening glass,
seeing
no way out.
How
did it come to this,
when
did all the mess begin?
& yet
either the future already exists or still
it can be changed,
so wait
because
not every chain
is unbreakable.